Frozen Tracks (38 page)

'There's light at the end of the tunnel,' said Ringmar.

'Come home with me,' said Winter.

'I'll be in touch,' said Ringmar, pulling on his overcoat
as he walked away.

'Your car's outside,' said Björck as he passed the front
office.

Ringmar drove out to the motorway in his official
car, heading north. He drove in silence, no radio. He
didn't know if Smedsberg would be at home.

Winter switched off the lights and left. His footsteps
echoed in the tiled corridor. His mobile rang.

'I can't accept that you'll be on your own tonight,
Erik.'

His sister. She hadn't accepted that he was on his
own. She'd phoned yesterday, and the day before that.
And the day before that.

'I have to work, Lotta.'

'You mean that you have to be alone in order to
think, is that it?'

'You understand how it is.'

'You must have food.'

'That's true.'

'You must have company.'

'I might come a bit later,' he said.

'I don't believe you.'

'Come on, Lotta, I haven't chosen this of my own
free will.'

'You're welcome to come whenever you want,' she
said, and hung up.

There was a layer of ice on the car windows. He scraped
and smoked. The smoke was like breath.

He was alone in the streets, the only person out and
about at this time. No buses, no trams, no taxis, no
private cars, no police cars, no motorbikes, no pedestrians,
nothing at all.

Vasaplatsen was white and silent. He stood in the
entrance to the flats and breathed in the air that felt
cold without being raw.

He poured himself a Springbank in the kitchen and
took it into the living room, where he lay down on the
sofa with the glass on his chest. He closed his eyes. The
only sound to be heard was the faint hum from the freezer.
He leaned his head forward and took a sip of the whisky.

He sat up and ran his hand through his hair. He
thought about playgrounds and day nurseries, parks,
cars, squares such as Doktor Fries Torg, Linnéplatsen,
Kapellplatsen, Mossen, about Plikta, about – tracks.
Tracks heading in all di-di-di-directions.

He thought about all that simultaneously. He couldn't
keep things apart, everything came at the same time, as
if they were linked. But they weren't linked.

He rubbed his face. A shower and something to eat,
then I can think again. And I have Christmas presents
to look for as well.

He took off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom.
I'll have a bath. The whisky can keep me awake.

Nevertheless, he reached for the telephone in the hall
and called England. It was one of several such calls that
late autumn and winter.

Steve answered.

'Merry Christmas, Steve,' said Winter.

'Same to you, Erik. How are things?'

Winter told him how things stood.

'Have you checked all the parents thoroughly?' asked
Macdonald. 'All of the parents?'

Winter would remember that question when it was
all over.

He put on his dressing gown and left the steaming bathroom.
His drowsiness fell away as he walked around
the flat. He glanced at the whisky bottle in the kitchen,
but left it untouched. The centimetre he had drunk
already would have to suffice for the time being. He
might need to drive later tonight.

He read the instructions in the kitchen, and started
his search. Elsa's present was indeed like a fish under
a rock – in a flat box taped underneath the double bed.
Drawings: the sea, the sky, beaches. Snowmen. Angela's
present was hidden in among the drawings: another
volume for the bookcase. Some newly discovered texts
by Raymond Carver,
Call If You Need Me
.

He sat in the bedroom and phoned Spain.

'Siv Winter.'

'Hello, Mum. Erik here.'

'Erik. We wondered when you would ring.'

'That moment has come,' he said.

'It's gone nine. Elsa's almost asleep.'

'Can I speak to her? Merry Christmas, by the way.'

'Are you at Lotta's?'

'Not tonight,' said Winter.

'Are you spending Christmas Eve all alone, Erik?'

'That's why I stayed behind here.'

'I don't understand you,' said Siv Winter.

'Can I speak to Elsa now?'

He heard her voice, she was halfway into a dream.
He recognised Angela in her. It was the same voice.

'Thank you for the doll,' she said. 'It was lovely.'

'Thank you for the smashing drawings.'

'You found them!'

'The snowman seemed to be having a good time on
the beach.'

'He's on holiday,' she said.

'Good for him.'

'When are you coming, Daddy?'

'Soon. When I get there we'll have another Christmas
Eve!' he said.

She giggled, but as if in slow motion.

'Are you tired, Elsa?'

'Nooo,' she said. 'Grandma said I could stay up as
long as I like.'

'Is that what she said?'

'As looong as I like,' said Elsa, sounding as if she
might drop the receiver at any moment and lie down
to sleep on the marble floor.

'Have a nice evening, my lovely,' said Winter. 'Daddy
loves you.'

'Love and kisses, Daddy.'

'Can you ask your mummy to come to the telephone,
my lovely?'

He heard Muuummy in the half distance, and then
Angela's voice.

'Are you still at work?'

'No. I'm still working, but not at work.'

'You sound tired.'

'Drowsy, more like it, but I'm waking up again. I
had a bath.'

'Good thinking.'

'I wasn't thinking much at all at the time.'

'Any news since we last spoke?'

'I found the book and rang straight away.'

He heard a giggle, just like Elsa's.

'I've got a question for you,' he said. 'Do you know
anybody at the day nursery who stutters? An adult. Staff
or parents.'

'Stutters? As in st-st-stutters?'

'Yes.'

'No. I can't say I do. Why do you ask?'

'Or Lena Sköld. When you spoke to her. Did she say
anything about somebody stuttering then?'

'No, not as far as I recall. What are you getting at,
Erik?'

'We think the person Ellen met stuttered. I think she
is trying to tell us that. Or rather, has told us already.'

'What's that got to do with the day nursery?'

'You know that we are checking up on everybody
connected with the place.'

'I was thinking about all this earlier today,' said
Angela. 'What if the things the children have been saying
were just figments of their im agination after all?'

'It wasn't a figment of the imagination for Simon
Waggoner.'

'No. But the others.'

'Three parents have reported the same thing,' said
Winter.

'Have you spoken to them?' she asked. 'About the
stuttering?'

'No. We didn't get this lead until late this afternoon.
I'll speak to them.'

'Tonight?'

'Yes.'

'It's starting to get late,' she said.

'Everybody understands how serious this is,' he said.
'Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve.'

'Any new tips regarding the boy? Micke Johansson?'

'All the time. We have extra staff at the switchboard
throughout the holiday period.'

'Are you sending out a search party? If that's the
right expression.'

Winter thought of Natanael Carlström when she said
'search party'. That had been one of the first things he'd
said.

'There are a lot of people out looking,' he said. 'As
many as we can possibly muster. But Gothenburg is a
big city.'

'What do your local stations have to say?'

'What do you mean?'

'The officers who took the phone calls in the first
place. Do they have anything to say about a stutter, or
any other details?'

'Am I talking to DCI Angela Winter?'

'What do they have to say?' she repeated. 'And it's
DCI Angela Hoffman.'

'I don't know yet. I've tried to contact the ones at
Härlanda and Linnéstaden, but they are off duty and
not at home.'

He phoned the Bergorts, who were still a man short.
When Magnus Bergort had vanished, Winter had rung
Larissa Serimov and asked her point blank if she could
be with the mother and daughter. He had no right to do
that, and she was under no obligation. She was off duty.

'I'm not doing anything special tonight anyway,' she'd
said, and he thought he could hear her smiling.

'It's a lonely family,' Winter had said. 'Kristina Bergort
has nobody who can be with her and the girl tonight.'

'What if he comes home?' she'd asked. 'He might be
violent.'

What could he say? Use your SigSauer?

'I could always shoot him,' she'd said.

'He won't come home,' Winter had said. 'Be careful,
but he won't come home.'

'Do you think he's topped himself?'

'Yes.'

He'd been waiting for news that somebody had driven
into a cliff or a tree on one of the roads heading east.
Nothing yet. But he thought that Magnus Bergort was
no longer of this world, or soon would be.

Serimov answered:

'This is the Bergort home, Serimov speaking.'

'Erik Winter here.'

'Hello, and Merry Christmas,' said Serimov.

'Is Maja in bed?'

'She's just gone to sleep.'

'Can I speak to her mother?'

Kristina Bergort sounded tired but calm. Maybe it
was a relief for her. Irrespective of what might happen
next.

'Has anything happened to Magnus?' she asked.

'We still don't know where he is,' said Winter.

'Maja is asking for him,' said Kristina Bergort.

Winter could see the girl in front of him, when she
didn't want to enter her father's study.

'Has she said anything about the man in the car
having a stutter?' Winter asked.

'No, she's never said anything about that.'

'OK.'

'Do you want to ask her?'

'I think so, yes.'

'When? Now?'

'Perhaps tomorrow. If that's all right?'

'Yes, that should be OK. Everything is so . . .' and
he could hear that she was losing her grip on her voice,
not much, but enough for him to be clear that the call
must come to an end now.

His mobile rang. For a moment he wasn't sure where
it was. He found it in the inside pocket of his jacket,
hanging in the hall.

'You didn't ring.'

'I haven't had time, Bülow.'

'You never do.'

'I'm up to my neck in it at the moment,' said Winter.

'So am I. I'm staring at an empty computer screen.'

Winter had gone to his study. His PowerBook was
gleaming vacantly on his desk.

'The situation is very sensitive at the moment,' he
said.

'The night editor has sent reporters out to Önnered,'
said Bülow.

'What the hell did you say?'

'To the Bergorts. Since you sent out an alert for—'

Winter pressed as hard as he could on the red key.
The problem with mobile phones was that there was
no receiver to slam down. You would need to hurl the
whole thing.

It rang again. Winter recognised the number.

'We ha—'

'It's not my fault,' said Bülow. 'I don't like it either.'
Winter could hear voices in the background, a snatch
of music that could have been a Christmas carol or
some such stuff being played for the dregs of society in
the newsroom. 'Are
you
always happy with your job,
Winter?'

'If I'm allowed to do it,' he said.

'Carolin Johansson is interviewed in tomorrow's
edition,' said Bülow.

'Words fail me,' said Winter.

'You see? It only gets worse.'

'Who's next? Simon?'

'Who's that?' asked Bülow. 'What's happened to him?'

'That was only an example.'

'I don't believe you.'

'Are you sending out the reporters now?' asked
Winter.

'I'm not the night editor,' said Bülow.

'How long are you working tonight?'

'I'm on until four tomorrow morning. So much for
my Christmas.'

'I'll phone.'

'I've heard that before.'

'I'll phone,' said Winter again and pressed the red
key for the second time, put his mobile down on the
desk and picked up the receiver of the main telephone.

A patrol car drove past in the street below, its siren
wailing. That was the first sound he'd heard from
outside. He could see the top of the Christmas tree in
Vasaplatsen, a lone star.

The Bergorts' phone was engaged. He considered
ringing the Frölunda station, but what would they be
able to do? He rang Larissa Serimov's mobile number,
but didn't get through.

He phoned Ringmar at home, but there was no
answer. He tried Ringmar's mobile. No contact.

He was beginning to feel manic, standing in the middle
of the quiet, dark room with his fingers hovering nervously
over the keys. He tried a number he'd looked up
in his address book.

He waited. Three rings, four. The world was unavailable
tonight. A fifth ring, a crackling, an intake of
breath.

'Car-Carlström.'

Winter said who he was. Carlström sounded worn
out when he mumbled something.

'Did I wake you up?' Winter asked.

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry. But I have a couple of questions about
Mats.'

Winter heard a sound coming from somewhere close
to Carlström. It could have been a stick of firewood
crackling in the stove. Had Carlström had a telephone
in the kitchen? Winter hadn't thought about that when
he was there.

'What about Mats?' asked Carlström.

'I met him today,' said Winter, checking the time. It
wasn't midnight yet.

'And?'

'Does he know Georg Smedsberg?' Winter asked.

'Smedsberg?'

'You know who he is.'

'I don't think he knows him.'

'Could they have had any contact at all?'

'What difference does it make?'

'Smedsberg's son is one of the young men who've
been attacked,' said Winter.

'Who said that?' asked Carlström.

'Excuse me?'

'He's said that himself, hasn't he?' said Carlström.

'I've been thinking about that,' said Winter.

'Perhaps not enough,' said Carlström.

'What do you mean by that?'

'I'm not saying any more,' said Carlström.

'Did Mats have any contact with Georg Smedsberg?'
Winter asked again.

'I know nothing about that.'

'Any contact at all?' said Winter.

'What if he had?'

That depends on what happened, Winter thought.

'What sort of a life did Mats have with you?' Winter
asked. I've asked that before. 'How did he get on with
other people?'

Carlström didn't answer.

'Did he have a lot of friends?'

It sounded as though Carlström gave a laugh.

'I beg your pardon?'

'He didn't have any friends,' said Carlström.

'None at all?'

'Them round here couldn't stand the lad,' said Carlström,
his accent getting broader. 'Couldn't stand him.'

'Was he ill-treated at all?'

That same laugh again, cold and hollow.

'They made a mockery of him,' said Carlström. 'He
might have been able to stay, but—'

'He ran away?'

'He hated them and they hated him.'

'Why was he hated?'

'I don't know the answer to that. Who knows the
answer to a question like that?'

'Was Georg Smedsberg one of those who ill-treated
him?'

'He might have been,' said Carlström. 'Who can keep
track of that?'

'What did his wife think about it?'

'Who?'

'Gerd. His wife.'

'I don't know.'

'What does that mean?' asked Winter.

'What I said.'

'How did you know Gerd?' Winter asked.

Carlström didn't answer. Winter repeated the question.
Carlström coughed. Winter could see that he wasn't
going to say anything else about Gerd, not at the
moment.

'Would Mats have been up to attacking those boys?'
he asked. 'As some sort of revenge? An indirect revenge?
In return for what the others had done to him?'

'That sounds like sheer madness,' said Carlström.

'Has he ever said anything along those lines? That
he wanted to get his own back?'

'He's never said much at all,' said Carlström, and Winter
detected a touch of tenderness in his voice. Unless it was
tiredness. 'He didn't want to say much. Avoided anything
hard. That's the way he was when he first came here.'

'Have you spoken to him this Christmas?' Winter
asked.

'No.'

Winter said good night. He checked his watch again.
Almost midnight now. He could still hear Carlström's
voice echoing in his ears.

Carlström could have done it, Winter thought. He
could have taken revenge on old man Smedsberg, for
instance, and everything associated with him. For something
Smedsberg had done to Mats. Or to himself.

There was something else Carlström had just said.
Winter hadn't thought about it at the time, but now, a
minute later, he was going over the conversation again,
in his head.